The Devil You Know
by Susan Hillwig
Summary: From DC2!  A simple robbery turns into a nightmare for three outlaws when they cross paths with the supernatural force known as El Diablo!  But is there something even worse pulling the demon's strings?


_DC2, as you may or may not know, is a group effort, with many writers, artists, and editors working to support the numerous titles there. Sometimes, though, a little extra help is needed, and we'll reach out to others for content. That's where this story comes from: the editor of our villain-centric Rogues Gallery title sent me a note asking if there were any Western villains worthy of a spotlight story. After telling him that few outlaws live long enough to merit true villain status, I ran past him an idea I had for a WWQ story that I simply hadn't gotten around to yet. It was met with an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and I got to work right away. If you haven't already read my "Inherit the Wind" story, you might want to give it a look first...and if this story leaves you wanting to see more, I promise that you'll get your wish by next year._

_**Disclaimer:**__ All characters in this story are owned by DC Comics._

_**Continuity:**__ This story originally appeared on the DC2 fanficiton site as Rogues Gallery #16. For a link, please click on my homepage under my profile._

**THE DEVIL YOU KNOW**

_**California, 1866:**_

The midday sun beat down on the flat desert land, baking the earth until it cracked and bled dust. This was not a fit place for man nor beast, yet a trio of each was making its way across the waste: three men with varying degrees of untrustworthiness hovering about them, riding three horses that cared not how their masters paid for their feed or tack. In the lead was Dugan, the so-called brains of the outfit, and not far behind were Ortiz and Cahill, both of whom had had just about enough of Dugan's closemouthed attitude regarding their destination.

"So, when you gonna tell us what this is all about?" Ortiz said, spurring his mount up next to Dugan's.

Cahill flanked their leader on the other side, adding, "Maybe he plans on havin' us wander the desert for forty years."

Dugan gave each of them a sideways glance in turn, then said, "You boys ever hear of a town called Puerta Del Sol?" They shook their heads, and Dugan continued, "Ain't a half-bad place. Kinda out of the way, but it does well. Spent some time there a few years back."

"You dragged us all the way out here for a reminisce?" Cahill grumbled.

"Let me finish, dung-brain. In that there town's a man named Lane...owns the bank. Comes from old money, y'see. Real stiff shirt. Anyhow, last week, I hear-tell that Lane's in a bad way now." Dugan chuckled. "Rich little priss was out ridin' durin' a rainstorm, an' managed to get his ass struck by lightning."

Ortiz let out a whistle, then said, "I have a cousin that happened to. Burned all the hair off his body, swear to God. Never grew back, either."

"Ain't sure if Lane's in the same boat," Dugan answered, "but I do know the fella's an invalid now. Deaf, dumb, an' blind, they say. Worst part for him is nobody cares. Folks say God's punishin' him for bein' a greedy, money-grubbin' sinner."

Cahill leaned over in his saddle, saying, "An' the point of all this is..."

"Point is, the man's a-sittin' all alone in his fancy house on the outskirts of Puerta Del Sol, with nobody to give a damn 'bout him 'cept some old Indian manservant. Now granted, most of the Lane fortune is probably in the bank, but I reckon there's a good amount socked away in that there house, too." Dugan flashed a wicked grin and said, "It shouldn't take more'n three enterprisin' men like ourselves to finish off an Indian an' a cripple, then ransack the house 'til we've turned up every last bit of coin. Least that's what I think."

The man snapped the reins on his horse, driving it up to a gallop and leaving his partners behind. After passing a glance between them, the other two men followed suit.

* * *

It was getting on near dusk by the time the three men passed through Puerta Del Sol. As Dugan said, it looked like a cozy little town, the buildings a mix of Mexican adobe and Northern Pacific timber. The men weren't interested in sightseeing, however, and rode on to the northwest, where the Lane _hacienda_ lay about five miles outside town. The wealth of its owner was evident upon first glance, though an air of neglect seemed to be sneaking in at the edges of the property: the long grass along the wall circling the perimeter was turning yellow at the tips, and the water sitting in the eerily-still fountain within the courtyard appeared scummy. Even the white stucco covering the exterior walls was beginning to crack and turn gray. None of this seemed to register in the minds of three men, who were so focused on the prospect of easy pickings that they didn't bother to wait for full dark before making their move.

Boldly leaving their mounts in the courtyard, they drew their pistols and strode up to the front door. Dugan reached for the handle, and the door swung open the moment his fingers brushed against it. "See? What'd I tell ya?" he said to his companions with a grin, then stepped inside. The waning light outside didn't reach far into the house, but there was enough to make out the general shape of the wide foyer. There were open archways on either side, leading to darkened rooms, and a staircase dead ahead, with a landing encircling the second floor.

Cahill walked towards one of the archways, peering into the dark and saying, "Where do you suppose we start?"

"Reckon we should try an' find a lantern first," Dugan replied. "Place is blacker'n a coal miner's bunghole."

"Not everywhere, _amigos_." Ortiz was standing at the foot of the staircase, pointing upwards. Sure enough, there was a faint glow coming from beneath a door at the top of the stair. "Must be where Lane and that Indian are holed up."

Dugan nodded, raising his pistol. "Best we go an' introduce ourselves, then." They moved up the stair, three abreast, and approached the door. Just as before, it swung open at the lightest touch, and they once again interpreted it as a good sign...but then the smell hit them. In the rest of the house, the air seemed dry, almost sterile, but in here, it was dank, earthy, bringing to mind a graveyard after a heavy rain. For the first time that evening, there was hesitation in their steps. But there was nothing visibly amiss in the room before them: it appeared to be a study, the deeply-shadowed walls flanked with bookshelves and a large oaken desk to one side. A fireplace was set into the wall opposite the door - the only source of light in the room - with a plush, high-backed chair facing the flames. It looked as though someone was sitting in the chair, but the figure didn't stir as the three men walked up.

Dugan was the first to catch sight of the chair's occupant: a well-dressed man in his thirties, his dark moustache and beard neatly trimmed. His gaze was fixed on the fire, unmoving, unblinking, seemingly oblivious to the outlaws now surrounding him. Dugan waved a hand in front of the man's eyes, to which he gave no reaction - the only sign of life apparent was the steady rise and fall of his chest. "Jesus...they weren't kiddin'. This fella may as well be dead."

"Hey, Lane!" Cahill stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a ear-splitting whistle right in the man's face. "Hey, y'all mind if'n we clean out your house for ya? You'd best pipe up if'n you do, 'cause once we get started, we ain't stoppin'!" Lane didn't even twitch, and Cahill smiled. "Well, now I don't feel so bad, havin' permission an' all."

"Actually, I think maybe he's not as cut-off as he seems," Ortiz said, leaning down to take a look at Lane himself. "Look at his eyes...he _knows_ we're here." He cupped Lane's chin and lifted his head, turning the man's slackened face towards the other outlaws. Indeed, those eyes appeared rather focused and aware, with a hint of terror buried within them.

"That's a real shame for him, but it doesn't change a thing for us," Dugan replied. "We've still got a job to do here."

"And what job would that be?" someone said from the doorway. The three men looked up to see a gray-haired Indian standing there, dressed in buckskin breeches and a dark homespun shirt. He regarded them with narrowed eyes set deep in his weathered, wrinkled face. "Please, tell me. I'd truly like to find out why you're here."

"Well, we certainly didn't come to chat up your master here," Dugan said, then pointed his gun at the Indian. "Why don't you step to the side there, away from the door?" The Indian did as he was told, then Dugan said, "Okay, old man, if you cooperate with us, we promise not to lay a hand on you. Sound good?"

"Oh, I _know_ you won't touch me," he replied, his gaze never wavering.

"I don't like your tone, Injun," Cahill said. He brandished his own weapon, saying, "Best tell us where Lane has his money stashed afore your tongue gets you in trouble."

"Money? There is no money."

"_No money?_" Cahill let out a curse, then smacked Dugan on the back of the head. "You dragged us out here for _nothing_, you ass!"

Dugan gave Cahill a shove, saying, "Shut up for a second!" He then said to the Indian, "Look, there has to be something of value in a place like this. Gold, jewelry...I don't know what, but you'd better find something."

"There is nothing for the likes of you here."

"What's wrong with you? Do you think your master's gonna fire you if you help us?" Dugan waved a hand towards Lane. "He's a damn cripple! He can't say boo 'bout any of this!"

"He is _not_ my master." The Indian's voice suddenly took on a hard edge.

"Oh wait...I get it now." Cahill grinned. "This guy's already hocked all the stuff! He ain't such a good Samaritan after all."

"Is that true?" Dugan asked. "You clear out the house already?"

"What makes you think that I'd want to pollute my life with white filth? I have a goal much grander than anything your small minds can imagine." The Indian waved his gnarled right hand at them, and they could see that a couple of his fingers were missing. "Now, leave this place, or else you..."

Cahill fired before the Indian could finish speaking, the bullet striking him dead square in the forehead. As the body hit the floor, Dugan snapped, "What the Hell did you do that for?"

"He was pissing me off! He don't need him anyhow. Should probably put one in Lane's head too, just to put him out of his misery."

"Um, _amigos_?" While his cohorts confronted the Indian, Ortiz had remained standing next to Lane, and therefore was the first to notice the change in the man's condition: Lane's whole body had begun to tremble, a choking gasp coming out from between his quivering lips.

Dugan and Cahill each looked at Lane with puzzlement. "What's going on with him?" Dugan asked.

"Search me. It started right after that Indian dropped." Ortiz lifted Lane's head, turning the man's face towards his own and saying, "Can you hear me? Can you talk?"

Lane continued to gasp, then slowly, painfully, the gasps became words: _"...uh...r-r-ruh...run...run..."_ Then Lane fell quiet once more, his face going slack but his eyes retaining the same look of terror as before.

"I almost...lost my grip on him...thanks to you." The three outlaws turned to see the Indian getting to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the fact that blood was still trickling out of the bullet hole above his eyes. "If I didn't keep him bound to that chair, he would try to run off again...and I have far too much invested in that body to risk losing it now."

Cahill was the first to find his tongue, stammering out, "You can't...I _shot _you in the damn _head_...how...?" He raised his gun, let it drop, raised it again, all the while saying, "_How?_"

"I am Wise Owl," the Indian replied, "the rejected savior of my own people, and sworn enemy of all others. My body has been shattered before, my soul condemned to the deepest pits of the netherworld...but I shall never rest until all who oppose me are wiped out." Twin streaks of blood ran down his cheeks, staining his teeth as a grin spread across his face. "I was going to kill the three of you myself, but I think you'd be more useful as practice."

With that, Lane suddenly threw his head back and screamed, his hands clutching spasmodically at the arms of his chair. The three outlaws scrambled away, their eyes darting from Lane to Wise Owl, then to the fireplace as the flames roared up of their own volition, spilling out from the hearth and reaching up over the mantel. Hellish red light flooded the room, driving away the shadows and revealing to the outlaws the source of the dank, earthy smell: human remains, still smeared with dirt from being disinterred, piled high on the bookshelves and filling the corners of the room, with parts of animals mixed in as well. The light also played across the arcane runes that had been carved into the floorboards, the highest concentration being right beneath Lane's chair.

"Christ Jesus," Dugan whispered as he and his companions backed towards the door, only to discover that it was shut and locked. Ortiz and Dugan beat on the wood and twisted the frozen knob to no avail, while Cahill, who in his panic forgot how useless the gesture was, pointed his gun at Wise Owl and yelled, "Open this goddam door _right now_!"

The Indian laughed in response, the sound nearly drowned out by Lane's continuing screams as he writhed in his chair. Then the screams began to fade, almost echoing away, as if Lane's voice had been ripped out of him and thrown into a pit while his body remained in place. Moments later, Cahill watched as the body stood up, but what got out of that chair only vaguely resembled Lazarus Lane. The black clothes it wore appeared to be made of leather...and in some places, seemed more like its actual skin than clothing, especially at the gloved hands, the fingers of which sported claw-like points. From its shoulders hung a black cloak lined with red, the ends of it twitching as if the garment had a life of its own. Beneath the brim of its flat-crowned hat, Cahill could see that the bottom half of the face looked like Lane's, right down to the facial hair, but the top half had become a leathery mask of red and black, the edges ragged like the skin had been ripped away to reveal what lay beneath. Worst of all were the eyes: blood-red, glowing like hellfire, and staring straight into Cahill's soul.

"Suh...s-stop it...oh God, stop looking at me..." Hands trembling, Cahill lifted his gun and fired at the black-garbed figure, emptying the cylinder into its chest...only to watch all the bullets pass through it and hit the wall behind. His cohorts turned around at the sound of the gunfire, just in time to see the figure reach beneath its cloak and pull out what looked like an ordinary bullwhip. But then it raised the whip with a snap of the wrist, and the braided leather ignited as it encircled Cahill's throat. The man tried to scream, but the whip tightened like a noose, the smell of burning flesh soon overpowering the room's graveyard stench.

The other two outlaws stared in disbelief, neither of them daring to confront the thing as it choked the life out of Cahill, Wise Owl cackling all the while. "_Madre de Dios_," Ortiz said huskily. "_El Diablo..._the Devil..."

Dugan nodded mutely in agreement, then set upon the door with renewed vigor. He pulled out his Bowie knife and jammed between the edge of the door and its frame, hoping to pry it open. It didn't budge at first, but then Ortiz knelt down and took out his own knife, doing the same at the lower half of the door - after what felt like an eternity, they managed to pry it open enough to work their fingers into the crack and force their way out of the room. They ran to the stairway, stumbling into each other in their rush, and fell down the entire flight of stairs, ending up in a tangle of limbs at the bottom. With a groan, Dugan sat up, then looked up at the top of the stairs to see the black-cloaked figure looking down at them. "Oh Christ," he said, then shook Ortiz. "Get up...it's coming, dammit, _get up_!" But Ortiz seemed too dazed to understand, and now the figure was walking down the stairs, slowly, calmly, the whip trailing behind it like a tail.

He shook his friend one more time before staggering to his own feet and running for the front door - not surprisingly, it was as unyielding as the one upstairs had been. Instead of wasting time trying to pry this one open, Dugan moved to a nearby window, grabbed a small end table sitting next to it, and shattered the glass. As he climbed through it, he cast one last glance behind him: the figure was more than halfway down the stairs now, and Ortiz had recovered enough to realize this fact. He pulled himself across the floor, his left leg twisted and possibly broken, and cried out to Dugan for help. Dugan ignored this and continued on through the window, running for his horse the moment his feet hit the ground. Screams erupted from the house as Dugan saddled up, but he ignored that as well, galloping away from the Lane _hacienda_ and into the open country.

A good half-hour went by before Dugan eased up on the reins and let the horse rest. He'd passed on through Puerta Del Sol and beyond, out into the desert land that he and the others had ridden over hours ago. The sun was long gone now, though, as were his companions, and Dugan dismounted under the light of the waxing moon, grabbing his canteen from his saddlebag. He took a long draught, then poured some water into his cupped hands for his horse, which had begun to foam at the corners of its muzzle. _Best to keep on 'til morning, just to be safe_, he thought. _Then again, if that really was the Devil, is anyplace safe? And what in blazes is the Devil doin' a-squattin' in some empty house with a crazy Indian?_ As he pondered this, Dugan's eyes wandered across the bleak landscape...and that was when he saw the spark of flame coming towards him. His blood ran cold as the spark grew in his vision, until he could see the black-cloaked figure riding towards him on a horse the color of midnight. Embers burned in the animal's eyes and nostrils, and it left a trail of fiery hoofprints in its wake.

Dugan all but threw himself back into the saddle, whipping his horse with the reins like a madman. The horse obliged, but it couldn't produce enough speed to outrun the nightmare closing in on them, and Dugan soon felt heat crawling up his back. Like a fool, Dugan turned his head, and he saw the figure riding up beside him, its red gaze boring into him, its black hand reaching out to snatch him off his horse. Panic seized Dugan first, and he yanked the reins to the side in an effort to get away, but only succeeded in making his horse take a spill, throwing him from the saddle. He smashed into the ground face-first, and his blood smeared across the dry earth as it spilled from his broken nose. "God...please," Dugan gasped, his face pressed against the ground. "Please forgive me...I repent...I repent my sins...please, I don't..." He rolled onto his back and saw the black-cloaked figure looking down upon him from atop its mount. "_I don't want to go to Hell!_" Dugan shouted, blood and spittle flying from his cracked lips.

Then the figure unfurled its whip from beneath its cloak, snapping it in the air as the horse reared up and let out an unearthly shriek.

* * *

A low chant issued from Wise Owl's throat as he knelt next to Cahill's corpse and set to work on it with his knife. Most of the body was charred black, the face twisted into a rictus of pain, but once Wise Owl cracked open the breastbone, he could see that the internal organs were in serviceable shape. Sinking the jagged fingernails on his left hand into Cahill's stilled heart, Wise Owl chanted louder, words that weren't meant to be uttered by a human tongue echoing off the walls of the study. Within minutes, the interior of the corpse was as black and ruined as the exterior, and the bullet hole in Wise Owl's head was almost perfectly sealed, with only a few traces of dried blood remaining on his face and hair as evidence that there had been any wound at all. _If only I could heal all of my wounds so easily_, he thought, glancing down at his diminished right hand - even after nearly thirty years of trying, he hadn't been able to re-grow those two missing fingers. The events that occurred on the day he lost them still burned within Wise Owl's mind: the thieving white child ripping the power of the Windrunner from his grasp, the Half-Breeds disgracing him in front of the entire tribe, the white soldiers sacrificing him upon their hanging tree...but as he told the outlaws earlier, Wise Owl would never rest, not until he'd wiped out every soul that stood against him.

Many of Wise Owl's enemies were already eliminated, of course. It had taken him over two decades to repay the debt to those dark forces that had originally resurrected him, but once that was done, he'd returned to the scene of his defeat and wreaked havoc across the length and breadth of the valley that had birthed him, not feeling a shred of regret as the earth beneath his feet shuddered and died, choking on the blood of the valley's inhabitants. The Half-Breeds, the thieving white child, even the soldiers in their precious wooden fortress had paid the ultimate price in the end, and soon, more would come to know Wise Owl's wrath.

Footsteps sounded out in the hall, then the black-cloaked figure that Ortiz had called El Diablo appeared at the study door. The bodies of the other two outlaws hung from its clawed hands, both corpses just as twisted and scorched as the one laying in front of Wise Owl. It dragged them into the room and dumped them on the floor as the Indian got to his feet, saying, "Very good. Your master is pleased. Now, go back to your resting place until I summon you again." The figure didn't move, however, it continued to stand in the middle of the room, its glowing red eyes fixed on the still-blazing fireplace. "I gave you an order, creature," Wise Owl said, and jabbed a finger at the chair. "Go back to your resting place and wait for my summons."

In answer, the figure turned its head to look at the Indian, then reached beneath its cloak and pulled out the coil of whip.

"You dare to defy me? You _know_ the power I wield. It is the same power that keeps you bound within that husk...but I can very easily reverse it and send you screaming back into that pit I snatched you out of. Do you want to go back there? Back to being a nameless, faceless puppet, skulking in the shadow of all the other demons?"

A scowl coming to its lips, the figure replied, "**I am not a puppet...then or now**." The voice it used sounded vaguely like Lane's, but strained, like it was struggling not to burst into a howling rage. "**I was charged with a task, and I performed it gladly.** **It drives me still, though you try to twist it to your own ends.**" The whip uncoiled, flames sparking down its length. "**The blood of the innocent covers you, Wise Owl. Prepare for your punishment.**" The figure raised its arm, cracking the whip, then brought it down on Wise Owl's head...only for Wise Owl to raise his own arm and catch the end of the whip. The flames seared his skin, but he seemed indifferent to them.

"If it's punishment you want, then that's what you'll get." Wise Owl gave the whip a slight jerk, and the flame suddenly went out, followed by the glow in El Diablo's eyes. It gave a cry of anguish and fell to the ground, one hand still grasping the handle of the whip as the figure curled up helplessly at Wise Owl's feet. "I can snuff out the fire within you any time I wish, creature. I can cripple you just as easily as I did Lane when he tried to run away. He learned his lesson the moment I called down the lightning upon him...will you learn yours before the cold smothers you completely?"

"**Y-y-y-yes**." The figure's teeth had begun to chatter, giving its voice a more human quality. "**I have l-learned my l-l-luh-lesson...**" It paused, then said, "**Master**."

With a smile, Wise Owl yanked the whip free from El Diablo's hand. "Very good. Now, why don't you go warm yourself by the fire?"

The figure staggered to its feet, head hanging down as it crossed the room, hugging the cloak tightly to itself. All the fierceness and fury that the outlaws had witnessed earlier was gone, leaving it with a pale-faced, sickly visage. As it fell back into the chair in front of the fireplace, that visage was the only thing that remained unchanged: the leathery garments it wore dissolved into black smoke, revealing the familiar form of Lazarus Lane, just as still and silent as he'd been before.

"I think we should rest for a while," Wise Owl mused, wiping his hands together - the whip had vanished the moment El Diablo had. "Tonight was a fine test for what's to come, though, don't you think?" He walked over to Lane and stroked a finger down the silent man's cheek, saying, "In time, the entire world shall suffer as I have suffered...and perhaps then, I will be satisfied."

Somewhere deep within the body of Lazarus Lane, two separate souls tried to tear themselves free of their prisons, but neither could break the chains that bound them.

**THE END**


End file.
